Why the hell should one have to be interesting to be cared about? What if all of the uninteresting people banded together with a few large knives and well-polished guns and bloodied the hell out of everyone else? That would be interesting.
And it may be their only option.
I always expected to need corrective lenses by now. I don’t.
There are times and objects through which or with which my life has been much better than others. One would think I’d take care to actively learn from my experience, but, in truth, that really hasn’t happened, I think because life is simply too intense and full of distractions and imperatives.
Things along this axis:
– Keeping notes+diary on a PDA (i.e. Newton)
– Traveling a lot on my own in a car
– Being in school studying with insanely bright people
– Having a laptop rather than a desktop PC
– Having a camera and keeping it long enough to get to know it
– Having no mobile phone, or any phone whatsoever
– Writing books
– Being in places with actual seasons (extreme cold followed by extreme heat, etc.)
– Being an ass to anyone I don’t like or am even the slightest bit annoyed with
– Submerging myself in asian history and mysticism
The happiest moment in my entire life — or, to put it another way, my most precious, valued memory — was sometime in the summer of 2000 as I left Anthropology 5131 after having watched Yol. It must have been 105 degrees outside. The sun was so bright I could barely open my eyes, and I felt at one with the desert, at one with the academy, at one with the world, at one with myself. I will never forget that moment, walking in basic blue jeans and a white t-shirt against a giant yellow wall in the middle of the west desert toward nothing in particular, having just watched all of the beauty of life… of birth and of poverty and of rape and of death and having said nothing about them to anyone.
There have been no moments like it, even remotely, since. I suspect that it may remain the best moment in my life even on the day I die.
you know, you reach this point where you know you have a very high I.Q. indeed and you can see all the way to the horizon just how badly fucked the world is, and rather than take the time to write a book about the cellphones in the landfills or the genes in the patent office or government-supported rape-murder for the incredulous masses who just won’t get it anyway…
rather than continue to believe in an ethic that liberates them (they’re too stupid; they deserve their bondage), you just feel lazy and ready to say:
“I’m better than you, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.”
and if they won’t buy it, you just leave them there and shoot y’self in the head because, after all, there is no greater curse and no position of greater weakness than actually having understood things.
the new age imbeciles have thought our tinfoil hats from existence; they have believed their way into joyous heavychains and will next raise water from the ocean with their positivity and simpleness in order to drink it down and survive handily.
play the maracas.
Mr. John Lydon’s wisdom — brilliant.
He’s rotten, friends,
he really is —
his pink hair proves it.
You know — his eyes sing still
that he has no future
and he is oh-so-happy
with his former sex
dead, vicious friends.
No need for holidays in the sun —
God save the Queen
you rotten fuck-head!”
You will eventually kill all your friend-enemies with hot oil and bitter kindness given forcefully, like bullets.